"You're sure that I can be spared, sir?"
"Certainly; you can be called if you're needed."
To one not accustomed to war it might seem strange, but thirty seconds after Hal had wrapped himself in his blanket he was deep in dreamless slumber. He slept until the sun was fairly high. Then Prescott awoke him.
"Kelly—Slosson—are they back, sir?" were Hal's first words, as he threw aside his blanket.
"Back nearly three hours ago, Sergeant," smiled the officer. "It's half-past eight. I've been occupied, and have missed my breakfast. Come into the house and breakfast with me, Sergeant Overton. Sergeant Dinsmore will look after things outdoors."
"Did—have you buried the Moros who fell?" questioned Hal, looking out beyond the trench.
"The rascals sent over men with two lanterns, and asked permission to carry off their casualties," explained the officer. "I let them do it."
"It must have given them a lot of work to do," muttered Hal.
"It did. I estimate their dead at thirty, and their badly hurt at forty or more. We made it an expensive night for them."
"We paid a big price on our own part, sir," returned the young sergeant, "for we paid in good Americans."